


Sour Times

by SenkoWakimarin



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Anal Sex, Just bros being bros, Light Verbal Humiliation, M/M, Sibling Incest, Situational Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-23 08:41:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18149618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin
Summary: Dante is a brat. Vergil puts him in his place.





	Sour Times

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iiintangible](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iiintangible/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [[授翻] Sour Times](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18353660) by [psychomath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychomath/pseuds/psychomath)



> Theme song to this fic is 'Sour Times' by Portishead.

There are things Dante does that he _knows_ he shouldn’t, but that he simply can’t seem to help. It’s like seeing a bee’s nest and needing to hurl a rock at it. Seeing a sleeping bear and needing to jab it with a stick.

Vergil with his nose in a book doesn’t look like any kind of wild animal. He looks like an old house cat, laying in his square of sun, declawed and castrated, content. Still, Dante knows better -- Dante knows better than most anyone, how dangerous Vergil can be. His claws haven’t been removed, he’s just chosen to sheathe them.

Poke him, and he’ll eventually swipe back.

Nudging Vergil with the toe of his boot elicits no response. Vergil doesn’t even move, not away from him, not looking up from his book; he just calmly flips the page and carries on. Smug bastard. They might as well not be in the same room for all the mind Vergil pays him.

Dante doesn’t care for being ignored and he knows Vergil will snap given incentive. He thinks about grabbing for the book, but he doesn’t relish the elbow to the face that would likely leave him open for, and knows that if he accidentally tore a page, Vergil would be more than annoyed.

He jabs his fingers against Vergil’s side, right along his ribs, and gets the incredibly satisfying reaction of Vergil flinching away from him. Vergil hadn’t been ticklish as a kid, as far as Dante remembered -- he’s been self-contained even in that. It’s very satisfying, but it’s not _enough_ ; Vergil doesn’t actually close the book or look at him, he just jerks away.

So he does it again.

The sensation of Vergil smacking his hand away is tangled in triumph and some other, baser sort of pleasure, despite the sting. Better is the way he growls out just one word, a command.

“Stop.”

As if.

Dante changes it up, though. Vergil will be expecting another poke to the ribs, so he instead ghosts his fingers up the side of Vergil’s neck, sweeping toward his jaw, and finds himself suddenly pinned, bent over on his back cross the couch. It’s an uncomfortable position and Vergil is immovable weight on top of him, crushing him against the cushions.

“You’re behaving like a child,” Vergil snarls, and the hand he’s not using to pin the hand that Dante had been using to jab at him with is closed around Dante’s neck, putting just enough pressure there to make breathing difficult, swallowing unpleasant. His other arm is trapped behind him, bent at an awkward and unpleasant angle and pinned by his own body. The whole position is uncomfortable, the kind of uncomfortable that will quickly give way to pain if Dante doesn’t get free soon.

Somehow, all of that unpleasantness comes together as something incredibly arousing, and Dante’s a little horrified to realize that with Vergil crushing him against the couch, their bodies pressed close from chest to hips, there’s absolutely no way Vergil can’t feel how hard Dante suddenly is.

There’s a moment of silence between them. In the van, sound carries pretty well. They can hear Nero in the bathroom, getting the shower warmed up, pacing around a little. Maybe he heard the bit of a scuffle that lead to Dante pinned down like this, maybe he didn’t… probably he didn’t, Dante thinks. It happened so fast, there wasn’t much to hear, but the idea, suddenly so very real in its potential, that Nero might come out and see them

 _\-- catch them_ , is how his brain phrases it, and that’s worse, because they’re not even _doing_ anything --

in this position is mortifying.

The way Vergil sneers, the curl of his upper lip from his teeth, makes it worse. Because that’s a look that says a lot, says he knows, maybe not just how hard Dante is right now but about the things he’s thought, alone and in private with no company but his own right hand and filthy dirty thoughts.

“Maybe not a child,” Vergil says, real low, not quite whispering, but certainly not loud enough to carry. “A randy teenage boy, all eagerness and lack of self-control.”

“Get off me,” Dante snaps, except his voice is low too, and it’s hard to put a lot of fire in when he’s pinned by his _brother_ and is trying not be heard by, goddamnit, by his _nephew_.

Somehow Vergil’s weight seems to grow, pushing harder against Dante, shoving him down into the couch. Dante can’t breathe, and his struggles are weak. He tries to justify that as not wanting to draw Nero’s attention, but that suffuses him with another dose of shame because what is it he doesn’t want Nero to see? If this is just two brothers rough housing, the way he’s trying to pretend it is, then there’s no reason to worry about Nero catching them.

Seeing them.

“And leave my little brother so uncomfortable,” Vergil croons, and he’s leaned in close against Dante, so his words are breathed straight into Dante’s ear. “I thought you wanted to _play_ , Dante.”

In most circumstances, Dante doesn’t blush. Even if he does, he wouldn’t acknowledge it; saves face by denying it. But like this, held down and getting harder at the sound of his own brother’s voice, it registers all too clearly for him that he’s gone a deep red. The realization is as horrific as the realization that his dick was hard, it feels like the exact same kind of telling display.

“Your kid is in the bathroom.” This comes out almost desperately, a last ditch attempt, and Vergil gives him nothing for it. Vergil, in fact, looks deeply amused by Dante’s having pointed it out, and Dante understands sharply, suddenly, that Vergil doesn’t care about Nero seeing them.

He knows exactly what this looks like, and he doesn’t care.

“Then I suggest you figure a way to keep quiet,” Vergil growls in Dante’s ear, “and be a good boy and roll over.”

Dante knows he has a choice at this point. He’s even pretty sure this time he knows what most people would say was the right choice, which would be to actually put a little effort in here and shove Vergil off of him, kick his ass if he tried to push further, and get a little distance between them for a bit. Follow his brain for once.

Instead, he follows his dick -- not often the leader of his decisions, and when it is, rarely a good one -- and scrambles to turn over when Vergil gives him space to. He buries his face against the cushion, trying to hide his blush as much as keep quiet when Vergil laughs at him.

“Look at you,” he says, hooking his fingers in the waistband of Dante’s jeans, jerking them down over his hips, exposing his ass in quick, economic jerks. “No one ever bothered to teach you patience, much less self control. I suppose that’s what I’m for.”

“Fuck you,” Dante says, turning his head so he’s not muffled by the couch. But he’s arching his back and lifting his hips to make it easier for Vergil to expose him, complying as his shirt is shoved up and his trousers are jerked down around his thighs.

He jerks forward, which has the unintended consequence of rubbing his dick against the couch cushions, when Vergil pushes him open and spits on him, a glob of hot wet landing on the sensitive flesh of his hole, promptly followed by Vergil’s fingers. He’s not gentle, really, but he takes more time than Dante would have expected him to, considering.

Still, Dante doesn’t mean to push back into the sudden intrusion of Vergil’s finger, doesn’t mean to rock back like some desperate, untried slut getting his first fuck.

“Eager,” Vergil purrs, his voice just a low rumble, behind and above him. “Why I expected you to have any kind of dignity in this, I can’t imagine.”

Vergil spits on him again, except this time he has a finger crooked to hold him open so he can spit _into_ him, and that should absolutely not be something that makes Dante shiver and moan into the the seat of the couch, but it is. It’s filthy, made worse by the fact that it’s his brother, by how _bad_ he wants it _because_ it’s his brother.

The sound of two fingers roughly, quickly fucking into him is obscene, the kind of sound that cannot be misinterpreted. It’s a sex sound, there’s no getting around that; and Dante doesn’t have anyone’s hand around his throat anymore but he can’t breathe. He doesn’t want Vergil to stop, that is absolutely not the issue, but he also can’t stand the idea of Nero coming out of the bathroom to grab an extra towel or because he decided not to wash his hair and has finished a lot faster than expected, can’t stand the idea of being _caught_.

“You need to be quiet,” Vergil snarls, like it’s Dante’s _fault_ when he gasps, loud and throaty, at the sensation of Vergil’s spit-soaked cock pushing into him, pinning him to the couch. “You want the boy to come out and see what a grasping, desperate slut you are? How badly you need this?”

One hand is clutching his hip, holding him steady; the other winds into his hair and shoves his face into the the couch, rough, so the weak, awful sounds punched out of him with every thrust are muffled by the fabric. It’s hard to breathe, but god -- _god,_ somehow it’s better like this, the heat of his face buried in worn, rough fabric, fingers tight against his scalp. He can’t get a full breath like this, and it’s quickly becoming enough to set his heart in a panicky rhythm, but he’s not struggling.

No, he’s got his knees under him now, and he’s rocking as best as he can, as much as Vergil will allow, in time with the steady, hard motions his brother has set.

“You _do_ need this,” Vergil informs him, like his cock isn’t just as hard, huge and hot and buried in Dante’s ass. “Someone to push you down and shut you up. Teach you to control your impulses, reward you for being a good boy.”

“I’m not a boy,” Dante snarls, twisting his head so he’s not quite face down. His fingers are clutching at the fabric of the couch, all the venom of his tone utterly washed away by his own breathlessness, by the way his body sings as Vergil grinds his cock just so against Dante’s sweet spot. In moments, he’s gasping open mouthed against the cushion, drool soaking into the fabric, and he’s going to have to _sit here_ afterwards, going to have to use his coat or his own body to hide the wet left behind, not just from drool, but from his come, because he _is_ going to come, there’s no doubt about that. “You’re not even older, we’re the same fucking _age,_ you smug fuck.”

Vergil only laughs, low and patronizing, because even now Dante is doing his best to keep his voice down, doing everything he can to ensure they don’t get caught.

“Hush, Dante,” he says, indulgent like he’s talking to someone who needs coddling or coaxing. “Nero’s in the shower now, he’s got all the running water to drown us out, but how long will that last? How long until he comes out here and sees you, begging like a bitch in heat for your brother to fuck you the way you need?”

Dante wants to say something clever, something cutting -- insult him, imply it’s not good -- but his dick is as hard as it’s ever been, wet and hot and hard where it’s trapped, and he can’t even touch himself but he’s  _so close_ , still rocking steadily back against Vergil, desperate for more, desperate for something other than this restless grinding. “Hurry up,” is what he manages, and he hates it, hates the sound of his own voice because that is not a demand, that is a plea.

Leave it to Vergil to know, immediately, intrinsically, the difference and point it out. “Oh, poor little Dante,” he purrs, going perfectly, utterly still over him. “You’re shaking, you know. Everything about you is desperate, all untried and eager for me. You want more? You want me to fuck you rough and dirty, make you howl for it?”

And god, yes -- yes, he does, he’s thought about it, thought about it enough times to have an instant mental link between that tone of voice from Vergil and a sense of guilt and shame so deep it’s almost part of the kink. Maybe it _is_ part of it. They’re _brothers_ goddamnit.

He says nothing, can say nothing, because he _is_ shaking, trying so hard to keep himself still, keep himself from giving away how right Vergil is.

Vergil shoves his face back against the cushion again and growls in his ear, thrusting sharp and pointed again. “Maybe next time,” he snarls, vicious and promising, and that’s it, that is absolutely all Dante can take.

He comes like a gunshot, hard and sudden and excessive, balls drawn up tight as Vergil fucks him through it, and he wants to shout because it feels _so good_ , so fucking perfect, but his mouth is full of couch cushion and Vergil is still going, still grinding in slow and deep and so, so much. Dante thinks he could probably get hard again from that, given a moment, just from the way Vergil feels inside.

Part of him expects Vergil to finish on his back, mark him, leave the telling stains streaking up the fabric of his shirt, but he doesn’t. Dante was blushing before but that’s nothing to the burn in his face as Vergil groans in satisfaction and comes deep inside, hot and wet and so much better than he would ever admit.

Vergil leaves him with nothing, not a scrap of dignity; he sits up immediately, pulling out and tucking himself away as he stands and stretches languidly. “Clean yourself up, little brother. We wouldn’t want Nero asking questions, now would we?”

As if on cue, there’s a low thunk of the water shutting off. Nero, Dante is pretty goddamn sure, is actually _whistling_ to himself in there, and why the sound of that is simultaneously irritating and another cause for shame is something Dante elects to never analyze.

There’s just enough time to grab some tissues and mop up the wetness on the couch, not even enough time to clean himself up properly -- he manages to right his clothes and then feels immediate regret as Vergil’s come starts leaking out of him and soaking into his dingy underwear. Vergil has his book and is leaning against one wall, leaving Dante on the couch alone as Nero comes out, hair damp and eyes bright.

“Hey, you guys wanna check out that bar in town tonight,” he asks, utterly genuine and completely clueless. Dante presses his lips together and tries not to let his face darken.

“Oh, I’m certain Dante would love to go,” Vergil says, not looking up from his book again. “I believe he could use a drink.”


End file.
